


Daydreams of Tree Climbers

by Fayet



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A little soft mood piece, A little world-building, Also known as the shortest fic I have ever written, Backstory, Banter, Bittersweet, Brothers, Character Study, Gen, Growing up in Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morhen, Names, Non graphic mentions of physical punishment, Pre-Canon, Very Short one shot, Witcher Training (The Witcher), Witcher childhood, sad character backstories, with a hint of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26120257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayet/pseuds/Fayet
Summary: "How do you think it is going to be like when we grow up?"It's spring, glorious green spring in Morhen valley, and they are supposed to be training, running fast along the marked path, working on breath control. But who can resist spring when the meadows are in full bloom and the birds are chirping, when the trees are green again after a long, dark winter and the sun friendly enough so that for once they are not cold?
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 23
Kudos: 36





	Daydreams of Tree Climbers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stillmadaboutpetra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/gifts).



"How do you think it is going to be like when we grow up?"

Geralt is sitting in a tree, legs hanging off the side of the heavy branch he's perched on, back against the thick trunk. His wooden sword is somewhere down below, discarded on the ground without much thought, lying between the high grass growing wild. 

It's spring, glorious green spring in Morhen valley, and they are supposed to be training, running fast along the marked path, working on breath control. But who can resist spring when the meadows are in full bloom and the birds are chirping, when the trees are green again after a long, dark winter and the sun friendly enough so that for once they are not cold? 

Eskel is balanced higher up, reaching out for the next branch already. He's poised to climb up further, steady arms and hands, pulling himself up easily. His wooden sword is down on the ground as well, he can see the mock hilt and the leather scabbard peeking from the grass where he placed it with a little more care than Geralt has. For a moment he wonders whether he should chide Geralt for his carelessness, something he would surely get punished for if any of the older witchers sees it. Wigo would make him scrub the kitchen floor for sure, and then forbid him from eating dinner with the others, essentially only forcing Eskel to steal food later and then listen to Geralt trying to sneakily eat underneath his rough blankets, crumbs everywhere in his bed for days, his face sticky with jam against Eskel's back at night.

But Wigo isn't there, and neither are Casir and Bogumil, so Eskel keeps his mouth shut and instead reaches out for the next branch. He wants to go higher yet, see the valley. It was their original plan when they strolled off the trail they are supposed to run, originating from a discussion they had about the exact shape of the Gwenllech flowing through the valley. Geralt insists it's running sharply around a bend and Eskel can't believe him, not when he knows the river flows straight from the cold lake they learnt how to swim in last year, where Geralt nearly drowned and only didn't because Casir fished him out by the ankle and shook him upside down until he started to spit water and cry. 

Now Geralt can swim as well as Eskel, or maybe even better. He would be faster if he were bigger, but like this he's just a wisp of a boy slipping through the water, skin cool to the touch for hours to come. 

Eskel pulls himself up, finds his footing on the branch and comfortably balances. 

"What do you mean, when we grow up. We'll be witchers, what else."

He looks down, spotting Geralt's head through the freshly sprouting leaves. His dark curls are growing in again after they all had their heads shaved this winter, just like Eskel's own hair is already coming back, dark and thick and so very unlike Geralt's flowing curls that lay on the cold stones while Geralt sobbed with the blade skimming his skull. He'd gotten a slap for the crying afterwards and only had stopped after Eskel had brushed his hand over Geralt's tiny skull and then his own, declaring them both to look like pale mushrooms sprouting in a dark forest in autumn.

Now Geralt is picking at the bark of the branch he's balanced on, lost in thought. 

"Do you think it will be great?"

He looks up, blue grey eyes still large. He's so young his face still wants to keep its rounded toddler shape, despite the long hours of training in Kaer Morhen that turned his body into a sinewy thing, all pointy angles and thin limbs.

Eskel shrugs. He doesn't understand the question, really. 

"Of course it will. We will fight monsters and save towns!"

Geralt stares past Eskel into the canopy of the tree, his eyes no longer focused, lost in thought. He's daydreaming again, miles away from the tree, from Morhen valley, even from Kaedwen, like he does too often when he is supposed to learn his letters and numbers and the quill keeps slipping from his blistered fingers.

"I want to be a knight."

Eskel snorts. 

"You will be a witcher, that's better than a knight. Knights are stupid, they can't fight monsters. And they don't have silver swords."

Geralt frowns, thinking. He looks down again, at his tiny hands fiddling with the tree bark, the dirt underneath his short nails. The silver blade is the ace up Eskel's sleeve, because all the boys at Kaer Morhen covet it. They rarely see any silver around, because only the real witchers carry them when they go out, and those only come back to the fortress when its winter. Only Vesemir still rides out from time to time, and they crowd the windows and stare at his back and the massive blades sitting there, steel and silver, and then they borrow each other's wooden swords and try to set two of them on their backs which are far too narrow, and only Eskel and Dusko ever can fit them right on. On Geralt they look ridiculous, but then even his little wooden sword looks grotesque over his boney shoulders.

"I want a silver sword."

Eskel nods, reaching up. 

"You will get a silver sword, if you work hard and do well in the trials."

Geralt pulls his face into a deeper frown at the mention of the trials. Nobody talks about them, but the older boys sometimes whisper hushed tones in the dark, on the other end of the dormitory, and last spring three of them did not return from their walk down into the basement. 

"I always work hard and I will survive the trials."

Eskel laughs, holding on to the tree. 

"Right now you are not working at all, and you nearly drowned in the lake last summer."

Pouting Geralt looks up again, frowning harder. 

"But I didn't die!"

He sounds triumphant, the lake a monster he's conquered, despite the fact that he cried the same evening into his thin lumpy pillow. Eskel snorts, wonders if he should remind Geralt that he is just a little sniveller, but doesn't. He doesn't want to risk Geralt crying on the tree, something he knows from experience can happen. 

"No, you didn't. But that doesn't make you a witcher. Or a knight."

Geralt exhales, nods. 

"Are you going to be a good witcher one day?"

He stares up again, all large eyes and admiration at Eskel, the oldest of their age group, and arguably the smartest. Eskel puffs his chest, and nods with dignity. 

"Of course. The greatest!"

Geralt nods, too, agreeing and like so often mirroring Eskel. Then he pushes himself up, brings his legs up underneath and stands balancing on the tree trunk. It looks dangerous, but Geralt is comfortable in great heights, always climbing everything like a creepy crawly thing up a wall. 

"We will see who will be greater." 

He reaches up, finding a hold and easily climbs up to the branch directly underneath Eskel's current perch. Now his face is on line with Eskel's knees, and he tugs on Eskel's leather breeches with urgency. 

"How are you going to call yourself?"

Eskel growls at the tug on his breeches. He hates it when Geralt pulls on his clothing and Geralt knows this, dutifully lets his hand sink and instead pokes Eskel's foot. Eskel rolls his eyes, sneering a little.

"What do you mean, what will I call myself. My name is Eskel."

He says it proudly and he is proud of it rightfully, because Eskel was still named by his parents and not by Vesemir, and amongst a pack of unwanted boys that is a currency that's more worth than all the gold and silver of the world. It gives him a strange advantage, being able to claim that he remembers his parents, no matter that they weren't kind to him, no matter that Vesemir had to save him from what could have been certain death. 

Most boys barely remember their parents or anyone from their family, and Eskel even has a little sister of roughly Geralt's age he can recall, whom he remembers protecting at night from the monsters under the bed when she clung to his back much in the same way Geralt does now. It makes him stand out, almost as much as the magic he has that frightened his parents so much they gave him away. 

Geralt was named by Vesemir and barely remembers his mother, despite sometimes still crying for her when he's asleep. Eskel knows that, but he hasn't told anyone, not even Geralt himself.

"No, I mean your witcher name. You can't be Eskel of Kaer Morhen!"

Eskel growls, pretending to be a big, powerful witcher. 

"I can be whoever I want to be."

Geralt sighs, suddenly looking far too wise for a barely seven-year-old who probably is actually much younger but doesn't remember his proper age anymore. 

"Well, but I don't want to be Geralt of Kaer Morhen."

That surprises Eskel. 

"But from where do you want to be?"

He doesn't understand. Kaer Morhen isn't perfect but, well, they aren't hungry most of the time and sometimes they aren't cold. Days are long and exhausting and Eskel hates having to carry heavy wood for the fires around all the time and go to bed too late and rise early and wash with ice cold water that freezes over in winter, and to repeat all the same drill of training every day and never being told stories at night unless it's him telling Geralt and the others all the stories he remembers while trying not to cry as his mother's voice echos faintly through his head, from back then when she still loved him.

But despite all of that he's alright with the fortress and living here, because it's still slightly better than being tied up in his parent's shed because they think he is a monster. He isn't, he knows that now, and he'll prove the world that he is the one who slays monsters instead. Kaer Morhen will make him do that, will give him a silver sword and the bravery he needs. He can already pretend he's brave, but pretending and being are not the same, and he's old enough to know that with his almost ten years. 

Geralt frowns, and shrugs. 

"Haven't decided yet. But I will! Before I'm grown up."

There's determination in his voice and Eskel knows he means what he says. Geralt never makes empty threats, never is all words and no action, something everybody in Kaer Morhen has already realised in the two years he's been there.

"Are you going to tell me?"

He reaches down and Geralt looks at his hand for a moment before taking it, placing a foot against the trunk and with a little hop allows Eskel to haul him up so they are on the same branch. It's a little tight but they fit, holding on to the tree trunk and each other for the moment. 

"Of course! I'll always tell you everything. I'll have a great name, good for a knight."

Eskel sighs, thumping Geralt's boney shoulders a little, not much so he doesn't fall off the tree. 

"You're not going to be a knight."

Holding on to the tree trunk Geralt tilts his head and looks up, towards the canopy and the sky above, assessing the tree with all the air of a seasoned tree climber. 

"Wait and see, Eskel. I'll be brave and big and then I can do anything. Even be a knight!"

Looking at the way the branch is slightly sagging under their combined weight Eskel shakes his head and grins. 

"But when you're big and brave this tree won't support your weight anymore, Sir Geralt."

Geralt reaches up, finds a handhold where there shouldn't be one and hoists himself up. With surprising agility he continues his climb, leaves and loose bark raining down on Eskel. 

"Then I'll find bigger trees to climb! Just wait and see, Eskel of Kaer Morhen, I'll climb the highest trees and all the mountains and I'll have a silver sword and carry it on my back every day!"

His voice dulls as he makes his ascent and Eskel watches him with a hint of worry that vanishes quickly and makes way for his competitive spirit. He won't have Geralt win this little game, not when he still needs to prove that he's right about the Gwenllech and its meandering way across the valley and everything else, too. He wants to be the first to reach the top and see the glittering silver band and then they will continue their discussion on the way down and pick up their wooden swords and return onto the training path before anyone will notice they have wandered off, just so they won't get a beating tonight and be send to bed without dinner. 

With a sigh Eskel reaches up, finds a hold onto the trunk and quick like a squirrel follows Geralt up the tree and towards the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "The Climbing Tree" from Candian poet Richard Greene; also inspired by Robert Forst's wonderful poem "Birches" ("I'd like to get away from earth a while/and then come back to it and begin over.")
> 
> I've been writing so much dark angst lately that this little thing just suddenly slipped inbetween, fresh air, a hint of spring. Obviously this is not canon-compliant, but ties into my main fic "Hibernating with Ghosts" and maybe the little Eskel/Geralt arc I currently have the pleasure of working on.
> 
> For stillmadaboutpetra, in an attempt to make them smile.
> 
> Thanks to LovelyRita1967 for the typo witchering!


End file.
